


forgiven and freed

by dustyjournal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Turned Human, Extremely Necessary Hand Holding, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 07:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19883815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyjournal/pseuds/dustyjournal
Summary: Instead of the body swap, God offers Aziraphale and Crowley a way to escape the wrath of Heaven and Hell forever.Or, an ex-angel and an ex-demon experience the growing pains of becoming human.





	forgiven and freed

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a million thanks to dandelionwhiskey for the beta, and to toewsyourheart and allthebros for the endless encouragement. 
> 
> Second, this fic was sparked by the appearances of the real-life actors for these characters. Certain outfits they have worn irl that inspired some LooksTM are integrated into this fic (because I have no impulse control), and those outfits are linked in the end notes. 
> 
> Lastly, I am not from the UK so I seriously apologize if the research I did on terminology and driving times and whatnot are not totally accurate. 
> 
> Okay enough rambling, I hope you enjoy!

The bus rattles along the highway, being passed by motorists with places to be. Aziraphale watches them as they pass, staring into the dark night with nothing but contentment and warmth. 

He and Crowley are the only two on the bus, a product of the fact that this is not the bus driver’s typical route. Crowley had done as promised: convinced the bus driver to take a little detour. He had done it kindly; whether that had been due to Aziraphale’s expectant stare or something else isn’t clear. 

“Something on your mind?” Crowley asks, voice low enough that had someone been sitting directly in front of them, they may not have heard. Still, it makes Aziraphale jump a bit in his seat.

“No, nothing at all,” Aziraphale says, smiling at the demon. “It’s rather nice, actually.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly above his sunglasses. He exhales and sinks a little deeper into his seat, leaning his head on the window. “I suppose you’re right.” 

They don’t say much else on the drive, but Aziraphale does not mind. Companionable silence is something he has learned to treasure over the years. 

They arrive and Crowley stands, but Aziraphale hesitates. He - he _wants_ to go, but he’s never stayed at Crowley’s before. 

But the bus driver has already gone so far out of his way for them. 

“Coming, angel?” Crowley asks. 

“Yes, right,” Aziraphale answers, standing and following Crowley off the bus. “Toodle-oo!” He calls to the bus driver before the doors close.

Crowley sighs, repeats “toodle-oo” under his breath as he shakes his head. 

“It’s a common phrase!” Aziraphale bounces on the balls of his feet as Crowley unlocks the door.

“Yesss, I know.” Crowley lets Aziraphale through first, and Aziraphale only walks a few steps before he freezes. There is a distinct lack of couch in the apartment. Though Aziraphale doesn’t need to sleep, he feels like a rest of some sort is in order, but he’s surely not entitled to the bed. 

Crowley blows past Aziraphale easily, taking his jacket off as he walks. He doesn’t say anything, so Aziraphale simply… follows. 

They get to Crowley’s room and Aziraphale catches himself wringing his hands rather forcefully, so he clasps them behind his back instead. Crowley hangs up his jacket, then seems to register that Aziraphale is still standing in his doorway because he says, “Right, well you can leave your coat and such outside. I sleep on the left.”

It should be uncomplicated, is the thing. The bed is a necessity. There are no other options. But ever since Aziraphale threatened to never speak to Crowley again, that infectious thought that he is getting exceedingly worse at ignoring has come to the forefront of his mind. 

It is not an angel’s nature to want. So he will hold on to that bit of angelic nature - whatever he has left - and simply do as Crowley has asked. He strips to his underwear, missing his own pyjamas, and joins Crowley under the covers. 

“I think Agnes-” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley interrupts.

“Angel, we saw Satan Himself today. This can wait.” Crowley says it softly, as if he is so exhausted he cannot stay awake another moment.

“Of course,” Aziraphale replies. “Sweetest dreams.”

“Right,” Crowley mumbles. 

\--

Aziraphale blinks open his eyes, but he does not see Crowley’s ceiling. Instead, it’s blinding white, and now that he thinks of it, he’s standing, fully clothed. It’s almost as if they are back in the limbo Crowley had created to give them time with Adam before Satan had arrived. 

Another similarity to that is now Crowley is standing beside him, though he is not wearing any sunglasses. Before Aziraphale can ask Crowley where they are, an even brighter light shines on them and a voice begins to speak. 

The voice of God.

“Aziraphale. Crowley. You are in danger.” Her voice booms all around them, and Aziraphale instinctively takes a step laterally, closer to Crowley. 

“We know, Lord,” Aziraphale says. He looks to Crowley, whose jaw is clenched shut and shoulders square. “We have a prophecy, though, from Agnes Nutter.”

“I am aware of it, and I am here to help you.” She says. 

“Both of us?” Crowley says tightly, as if his mouth is still closed. 

“Yes, Crowley. But you may not want my solution. I will offer you the choice, to accept or decline.”

Aziraphale tries not to shake. He and Crowley have no ideas, no way of knowing what could be waiting for them when they awaken. He knows that whatever the Almighty offers, he will accept. 

“What is it, Lord?” Aziraphale asks.

“I will turn you both human. You will be undetectable, untraceable by both Heaven and Hell, both in appearance and by any other supernatural forces. You will both stay immortal so you may never have to face the wrath of Heaven or Hell, but you will otherwise have no other powers.”

Aziraphale had no idea what the solution could be, but he had not expected this. His instinct is to scream _no_ at the top of his lungs, awaken from this nightmare. But then he looks to Crowley, thinks about what Hell could do to him, and the answer becomes clear.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. Crowley stares straight ahead, not looking at Aziraphale. “Crowley, I think we must accept.”

Crowley looks down, just slightly. It is not the first time Aziraphale wishes he could read Crowley’s mind. 

“Decide,” God says. “You only get one shot at this. I'm quite busy, you know.”

Only then does Crowley looks to Aziraphale, his eyes entirely yellow, black slitted pupils constricted. He sighs, the corners of his mouth turned down. 

“You’re right,” Crowley says. 

They turn back to face the blinding white light. “Yes,” they say in unison. 

Then everything goes black.

\--

Aziraphale wakes with a start. He may have cried out, he may have not. He cannot be sure. Everything feels very, very wrong. He cannot feel his angelic grace thrumming just under the surface of his skin. He just feels a little too warm, trapped in the heat of the bedsheets. 

His first instinct is to look to Crowley, who is laying on his back, eyes screwed shut. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks. He’s relieved his voice sounds the same.

“What did we do, angel,” he asks, and Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s ever heard Crowley sound quite so dejected.

Aziraphale is going to respond, but then Crowley opens his eyes and faces him. 

His shocked expression should be enough to make Aziraphale worry what he himself looks like, but at the moment he could not care at all because all he can notice is how different Crowley looks.

His eyes are no longer their familiar yellow. Instead, they are a chocolate brown, mundane in all respects. His hair, too, has deepened from its bright red to a soft, dark brown, and it lays flat against his head in an almost youthful fashion. 

“You-” Aziraphale starts, but cuts himself off. He doesn’t know if he can believe it, let alone say it. 

Crowley closes his eyes, and Aziraphale has the urge to reach out and touch, to comfort. It is not common for him to crave contact, but now it is like an ache under his skin to deny it. If this is how humans feel all the time, their behaviours make much more sense. 

Human. They’re human.

Rather than follow his desire and close the space between them, Aziraphale rolls over, puts his hands over his face. He feels vaguely ill. 

“What do we do now,” Aziraphale asks, and it comes out broken, rough. He breathes deeply. He’ll have to breathe to survive now, not just to fit in.

“We have to get out of here,” Crowley replies. He gets up, and Aziraphale watches him for a few moments as he dresses. He cannot help but stare - he still looks like Crowley, the way he moves is the same, but it’s more muted, toned down. And the hair, the eyes...it could very well be an imposter. But it’s Crowley, a fallen angel who now has nothing because they chose their own side. Because Aziraphale made him. 

“God said we would be-” 

“-Undetectable, yes,” Crowley finishes. “But Hell knows where I live, Heaven knows your bookshop. They’ll come looking.” 

The weight of the dread hits Aziraphale like a ton of bricks. Crowley is right, of course. 

“Where will we go?” Aziraphale asks. He sits up in bed, wipes an annoying bit of gunk from his eye. 

“Well, Alpha Centauri is out,” Crowley snaps. He runs his fingers through his hair and pauses. Aziraphale’s chest clenches as he watches Crowley’s eyes widen before he darts to his bathroom. The silence is deafening. 

Aziraphale gathers the courage to follow Crowley to the bathroom. He means to console, but then he catches his own reflection. 

It’s not that he cannot recognize himself. It is more that parts of him that have never changed are suddenly different. His hair is no longer short and blond, but a brown-tinged grey long enough to curl around his temples. He has wrinkles on the outer edges of his eyes that he has seen in humans who smile a lot. There is the start of a beard, just a hint of dark grey scruff that, when Aziraphale touches it, tickles his fingertips. 

“We are still us, my dear,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley turns to him, sliding his front teeth together. “Are you sure?” He snarls. “Because I don’t see an angel and a demon anymore, no. I see two poor excuses for immortals who have once again been screwed by God’s Ineffable Bloody Plan!” 

Aziraphale averts his gaze. He has nothing to say to that. He turns silently and moves into the other room to dress himself. Even the clothes feel foreign, save for his jacket. That has always been a favourite piece of his and he is relieved that hasn’t changed. 

But as he puts on his bow tie, he suddenly feels constricted by it. With every second it tightens on his throat, restraining his Adam’s apple when he swallows. He hurriedly takes it off, stashing it in his pocket. 

Crowley blows past him, and Aziraphale waits a few moments before he follows. He is not surprised to find Crowley watering his plants. 

“I would like to see my bookshop,” Aziraphale states. 

Crowley doesn’t stop spraying the plants, doesn’t even look up. “Aziraphale, I-” 

“I know what you said,” Aziraphale interrupts. “But I want to see if there is anything I can save.” 

Crowley puts the spray bottle down, holds one of his plant’s leaves in his hand, inspecting it. “What if they’re waiting for you there?” 

“I’m undetectable now,” Aziraphale answers. He attempts to say it brightly, but even he has to admit he is feeling more and more unsettled about this whole ordeal. 

Crowley sighs. “Yes, alright. But I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Alright. Shall we?” 

“I suppose.” Crowley glares at his plants, and it seems just as threatening as it was when Crowley’s eyes were yellow. The plants shake as Crowley says, “no slacking off while I’m gone.” 

\--

By some miracle, both Crowley’s Bentley and Aziraphale’s bookshop are in pristine condition. There are no angels or demons to be found. Aziraphale takes it as a good sign, but Crowley still seems on edge. 

“What are you going to do with all of these books?” Crowley asks. 

It doesn’t break Aziraphale’s bubble, exactly, but his stomach drops just a bit. “I will offer them to Anathema and Adam, I suppose. I will only take the essentials.” 

The essentials turn out to be Aziraphale’s entire collection. He cannot possible fit it all in the back of Crowley’s Bentley, and his stomach turns over once again. His eyes start to hurt, burn a bit. He lowers himself into his desk chair, props his head up with his arm. 

“Angel, it’s fine,” Crowley says from where he is flipping through Aziraphale’s record collection. “Humans move all the time! We will just get one of those trailer things.” When Aziraphale does not answer, Crowley kneels by Aziraphale’s desk and puts his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. It is probably meant to be comforting, but the warmth of his touch also sends a tiny yet significant thrill through Aziraphale’s body. 

“And we will be able to bring your plants, too,” Aziraphale says weakly. The enormity of the situation is hitting him, now of all times. “But, Crowley, where will we _go_?” 

Crowley smirks, one of his more familiar expressions, and Aziraphale is strangely comforted. His fluffy hair and brown eyes make him look softer than Aziraphale has ever seen him, but it’s still Crowley under all of it. “I think there is a nice festival in Edinburgh this time of year.”

\--

By some miracle not of their doing, they manage to find a trailer that safely connects to Crowley’s Bentley. To be extra cautious, they use the back door to Aziraphale’s bookshop to load up all his books and other possessions. 

Aziraphale has always found great pride in his organization strategy for his bookshop. He could always find a book if he needed it, but the groupings and order were confusing enough to a casual shopper that they were more likely to leave in a frustrated huff than buy one of Aziraphale’s treasures. 

It does, however, complicate the packing process. The moving company fortunately had enough boxes and soft sheets for Aziraphale to carefully wrap and pack each book, but it was not simple to decide which books go in which boxes! They could be travelling for quite some time, and in the event Aziraphale wants to read a book buried in the depths of the trailer, it would prove to be quite inconvenient.

He’s in the middle of debating whether the Emily Dickinson books should be sorted by year of publication or preference when his phone rings. 

Crowley, currently walking to the trailer with a decidedly full box, freezes. The lights are off and there have been no signs of any angels or demons yet, but the ringing phone feels foreboding nonetheless.

They let it ring. Aziraphale has to put down the book he is holding because his hands are clammy. It’s an unpleasant sensation, to say the least. 

Aziraphale had never gotten around to buying an answering machine. He so wishes he had now, as the phone begins ringing again. Its shrill tone raises the tension in the room to a palpable level, and Aziraphale shares a helpless look with Crowley. 

Crowley tilts his head slightly, considering. He huffs, walks to the phone, and picks it up. 

“This business is closed indefinitely,” he says in a voice that sounds so unlike him, rough and too deep. If Aziraphale had not been looking directly at Crowley he would be easily fooled. 

Crowley’s eyebrows scrunch together as whoever is on the other side speaks. 

“Who is it?” Aziraphale asks in a whisper, unable to hide his curiosity. 

Crowley holds up his pointer finger. He doesn’t look altogether on edge anymore, which allows Aziraphale to relax his shoulders slightly. 

“Yes, we can drive up tomorrow,” Crowley says, his voice back to its familiar tone. “Right.” He hangs up.

Aziraphale rings his hands as he waits for Crowley to say something. It is probably only a fraction of a second before he does, but it feels like an eternity. 

“That was the witch, Anathema,” Crowley explains. “Agnes Nutter wrote another book.”

\--

The drive to Tadfield is one Aziraphale had not fully appreciated the first time round. Before, there had been far too much occupying his mind to notice the vibrant alterations in green of the trees, the smooth, rolling hills that gave a new and exhilarating view at every crest, and a feeling of safety at every dip. 

It may also be due to Crowley driving the speed limit, or somewhere close to it. He still takes the curves wide and with less braking than Aziraphale would prefer, but there is a definite change in the focus he shows to the road. 

Aziraphale had only seen Anathema’s cottage in the evening, so he could not fully appreciate its charm. Now, in the glittering sunlight, the cottage offers a sense of storybook wonder, from the daffodils proudly displayed by the fence to the wreath of flowers on the front door, to the view through the front window of a young man washing dishes. He is surprised that he still feels the love in the air, though it is not the way he used to as an angel. Different, but just as strong. 

“Nice place,” Crowley says low enough, as if he’s telling Aziraphale a secret. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees as they exit the car. He opens the gate for Crowley and follows, accidentally bumping into him as he closes the gate behind himself. Their hands touch, just barely, and Aziraphale is overcome with a need to reach out. It’s not an alien feeling, no, but the desire is much stronger than he can ever recall. Still, he pushes it aside, and follows Crowley to the door. 

Crowley only has to knock once before Anathema is at the door. She looks much less distressed than Aziraphale had last seen her, but then again, it had been the end of the world. 

“Hello,” she greets with a smile that quickly falters. The young man, who had also been there at the end of the world, peers over her shoulder. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale replies warmly. “Thank you so very much for your call. I do not think we have been properly introduced. My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley. We are in a bit of a bind, you see.” 

Anathema half-nods. “Yes, of course. Please, come in.” She leads them to the quaint kitchen Aziraphale had seen through the window, where tea and biscuits are waiting patiently for them at the table. 

It is only upon seeing the food that Aziraphale is reminded of his nagging hunger - they had eaten at Aziraphale’s yesterday, eating up his stores of sweets and non-perishables once they had loaded all of Aziraphale’s books, but he had nearly forgotten that humans needed to eat every day for survival. 

He shows his manners, though, getting seated and waiting for Anathema to offer the food first. Only then does he accept and savour each bite. Beside him, Crowley eats three in the time it takes for Aziraphale to dab the crumbs off his mouth from his first. 

“I can make a proper lunch, if you’d like,” the man offers. 

Aziraphale tries not to look too desperate. “We do not need you to go to such trouble, er…”

“Newt,” the man says. “And it’s really no trouble, I am sure you three have much to talk about.” 

“That is very kind of you,” Aziraphale replies. “Thank you.” 

As Newt takes food out of their refrigerator, Aziraphale adds a single sugar to his tea. The taste brings him back to his bookshop, to reading a new book in the early morning, and he smiles. He looks up at Anathema, who is studying him closely. She startles, as if caught.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “It’s just...both of your auras are so different from before.” 

“Auras?” Crowley asks, an edge to his voice that Aziraphale wants to chastise him for. “What’s so different about our auras?”

“Their shape, mostly,” Anathema replies. “Before, they were focused above your heads and your sides, almost like-”

“Wings, yes,” Aziraphale says, voice traitorously cracking. 

Anathema pauses for a moment. “But now… they are even, all over. Still brighter and wider than anyone else’s I’ve ever seen, though. And their colour. Yours,” she points to Aziraphale, “was almost pure white before. Now it’s a...very pale yellow, I’d say. And yours,” she points to Crowley, “was almost pure black. Now it’s yellow too, but much brighter than Aziraphale’s, kind of lemon-y.” 

Aziraphale is at a loss for words, unsure what to say but curious of the colours’ meanings. 

“Well, great,” Crowley says, too loud. “Guess that makes it official, then.” 

Again, Aziraphale is hit with the desire to hold Crowley’s hand, or offer him some other kind of physical comfort. It’s such a human reaction, but he guesses that’s the point of it. 

“Beg your pardon?” Anathema asks.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, clearing his throat. “We were, once, an angel and a demon. But now, it seems, the Almighty has granted us humanity as a sort of...oh, what do you call it? Witness protection.” 

A plate clatters on the counter beside them. “Sorry, sorry,” Newt apologizes hurriedly. “God made you _human?_ ” 

“Almost entirely,” Crowley grumbles. 

“Yes, and we haven’t quite grasped all there is about _being_ human, I’m afraid. We have only just packed up our belongings, hoping to start a life safely elsewhere,” Azraphale admits.

“Oh, wow,” Anathema says, taking her lower lip between her teeth. “Well, Newt and I would be happy to help you in any way we can! Which reminds me…” She trails off, gets up, and goes to the other room. She returns with a large book, nearly equal in size to Agnes Nutter’s first book. 

“I was going to get rid of it, but thankfully Newt read the first page.” She turns the book to them, and on the front, very neatly written, reads _Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the Worlde that is To Com: Ye Saga Continued_.

Aziraphale opens the first page, puts his glasses on out of habit. On the first page of prophecies says:

_Prophecy 1_

_When mine descendent wishes to burn these pages, hold fast, for two will need thine help, the forgiven and the freede. Call upon the Fell bookshoppe, then think on me no more._

Aziraphale reads the prophecy once, twice, three times. The beginning and the end of the prophecy are simple enough. But the forgiven and freed part...

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says kindly, closing the book. He looks to Crowley, whose gaze is still where the text had been. 

“You can take it,” Anathema says as Newt places sandwiches in front of each of them. 

Despite the shock of the prophecy, Aziraphale is still pleased that his whole body is giddy to reach out and clutch the book to his chest. The first book had evaded him until the end, and now he has the second gifted so graciously. 

“You may call me whenever you need it,” Aziraphale offers. 

“Oh, I won’t, but thank you,” Anathema responds quickly. “Is there anything else Newt and I can help you with? It must be, well, odd, being human all of a sudden.” 

“Well, we _have_ been living amongst you for over 6000 years,” Crowley cuts in as Aziraphale bites into a delightful peanut butter and honey sandwich. 

He swallows and adds, “Yes, but money was no object. I have plenty of it but I cannot simply materialise it anymore. I have very little clothing. I do not know how to cook.”

“Mhh, yeah,” Crowley groans. “You have a point.”

“I’ll give you some cookbooks!” Anathema offers.

Newt adds, “I can take you to a shop nearby for some...less conspicuous clothing.” 

Happiness bubbles in Aziraphale’s chest, so much he finds it hard to sit in his seat. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“We could go after lunch, if you’d like.” Newt smiles at Anathema, then at Aziraphale and Crowley. There is a twinkle in his eye that Aziraphale trusts. 

Aziraphale bites off more sandwich happily, and tries not to get hung up on the twitch newly fixated in Crowley’s jaw. 

\--

The first shop Newt and Anathema take them to is a store that maybe 20 people could fit into comfortably. Even with the small selection, Aziraphale is overwhelmed; his palms get sweaty and he cannot control his breathing. It gets more and more rapid until Crowley takes him outside and round a corner.

The fresh opens his lungs, and with Crowley’s hands on his shoulders, Aziraphale is able to find a relaxed breathing rate. 

“I...I don’t think I want new clothes,” Aziraphale admits. 

Crowley hangs his head, drops his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale secretly, briefly wishes he would put them back. “We don’t have enough clothing to fit in, angel. That’s just the facts.” 

“But,” Aziraphale’s voice is too weak, “what about my coat? I cannot part with it.”

“You don’t have to. You can still wear it, of course. Just...not as often. And it’s summer, we both need cooler clothes.” 

Now that Crowley mentions it, Aziraphale has noticed the heat making its way through, getting trapped in Aziraphale’s many layers. 

“Alright. Well, I am sure I can find some things to...oh, what do the kids call it? Spice up my wardrobe!” 

Crowley sighs, as he usually does when Aziraphale is more with the times than he is, and together they walk back into the store. Anathema and Newt are waiting patiently and do not say anything about the interruption, for which Aziraphale is thankful. 

“I found a few nice t-shirts,” Newt offers, holding out options for both Aziraphale and Crowley. They are soft to the touch and have no patterns, just simple, single-coloured, v-neck and crew-neck basics that Aziraphale may be able to stomach wearing. 

“I guess this one will do,” Crowley says, snatching only the black t-shirt that Newt has offered in Crowley’s direction. Aziraphale takes all of the shirts Newt had picked for him with a smile.

Newt looks puzzled, though. “Aren’t you going to try them on?” 

Crowley is already picking through another rack of clothing, grabbing a pair of black slacks. “The clothing always fits,” he says noncommittally, and Aziraphale’s chest tightens. 

“Crowley,” he says quietly, softly. “We cannot perform miracles anymore, remember?”

Crowley pauses only for a moment, then continues leafing through some jackets. “I know that, angel.” 

Aziraphale does not know how to respond to that; Crowley’s stiff back and the way he tilts his head away suggests he would rather do his shopping alone. It should not be a hardship to comply, yet Aziraphale has to use significant willpower to head to the dressing room, grabbing a pair of blue jeans marketed as “stretchy” on the way there. 

The shirts fit just fine, though Aziraphale feels like he is looking in the mirror at an actor, especially because the stubble that had been fairly unnoticeable two days prior has now become significant scruff. It’s soft to the touch and is peppered with grey, matching the hair that he is surprised to admit has been growing on him (figuratively and literally, of course). 

Focusing back on the task at hand, he tries on a deep plum v-neck and pairs it with the blue jeans. Both are surprisingly comfortable, the outfit more pleasing to the eye than he had originally thought. He stares at himself for a few more minutes, until Newt calls his name.

“Is everything alright in there? I can get you another size, if you need,” Newt offers.

“Oh, that is very kind of you,” Aziraphale replies. “But I think these will do.”

“If you’re done here, there’s a store across the street that sells suits,” Anathema says. “We can find you more modern options.” 

The promise of something more akin to his current attire has Aziraphale quickly undressing and returning to his own clothing, which, now that he puts it on piece by piece, is quite overwhelming. He pays, then turns to where Crowley is fixated closely on a display of various accessories. 

“Would you like me to wait for you?” Aziraphale offers. 

Crowley waves a hand. “No, no. I’ll be awhile yet. I’ll meet you over there.” 

Leaving Crowley and Newt behind, Aziraphale follows Anathema with a bit of a pep in his step. This is not going terribly, he admits to himself. 

The tailor who fits Aziraphale is very no-nonsense, which Aziraphale appreciates. It’s no time before she hands him an armful of options. It’s quite fun as he tries on many combinations, none of which are white (save for a few white collared shirts, which are breathable and gentle against his skin). Anathema critiques each option, and they decide on one black suit, a few high-quality slacks, and various collared shirts. 

“Try this one, too,” the tailor offers. It’s a gorgeous deep grey, pinstripe, three-piece suit, with a black leather tie and a white rounded-collared shirt. The combination immediately speaks to Aziraphale; the comfort and class marry well, and though it is not a variant of wihte there is a certain purity to it. 

He grins widely as he carries the final option to the dressing room. Even putting it on feels right, and he cannot stop smiling. 

Just as he is fitting his arm through the second sleeve of his jacket, there is a twinkle of bells at the door. 

“Oh, good, you’re still here,” Newt says cheerfully. 

“How did it go?” Anathema asks. 

There’s a large _thunk_ and crinkling of plastic. “Great,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can tell he is being honest. Aziraphale grins even wider to think that his friend has also had success today. 

“Well you’re in luck,” Aziraphale announces. “You are just in time to see my final purchase.” 

There’s a light, rapid clapping, which Aziraphale assumes is from Anathema. “Let’s see!” She exclaims. 

Although there had been no mirror in the dressing room, Aziraphale knows the suit fits like a glove. Still, he is delighted to see his reflection looking as smart as he feels. He turns to his company to see both Newt and Anathema smiling, and Crowley’s mouth just slightly open. 

“You got new glasses,” Aziraphale says, pointing at the black aviators that now sit on Crowley’s face. “They suit you!”

“Oh. Thanks,” Crowley says slowly. He fidgets with them a bit, pushes them up his nose. They really do look appealing on him.

“You look very smart in that, Mr. Fell,” the tailor says. 

Aziraphale inspects the cuffs, ensures the length of the slacks is correct. “What do you think, Crowley?” He asks. 

Crowley starts, as if he’d been staring off into space but in Aziraphale’s direction. It was even harder, now, to tell where Crowley was looking, the sunglasses having both an opaque and reflective quality. 

“Yes, good, it’s...quite fitting, yes,” Crowley says, with a generous amount of nodding. It’s odd, but perhaps Crowley is just tired from all of the shopping. 

“Right, well, I shall purchase this and then we may move on. Or maybe we may find a place to rest and have some tea,” he says, more to himself than anyone else as he closes the door to his changeroom. 

They stop for tea just down the road, Aziraphale also picking out a delectable biscotti to accompany his drink. 

“You know, you probably shouldn’t call me Crowley, anymore,” Crowley says as he takes the final sip of his tea. 

“Well, what do I call you, then?” Aziraphale answers, slightly alarmed. It’s a good idea, sure, but it would feel very wrong indeed to call Crowley anything else. 

“Anthony.” 

“Alright,” Aziraphale agrees. It’s a very likeable name, to be fair.

“Um,” Anathema interrupts, staring intently at Crowley. “Just a question, have you been called Anthony Crowley before?”

Crowley shifts in his seat. “I had to come up with a name to blend in, at times. Anthony J. Crowley is what I’ve gone by since the early 20th century.” 

“This is probably just a coincidence and has nothing to do with you,” Anathema replies very quickly, “but did you have anything to do with a hospital bombing in London in 1942?”

Before Aziraphale can finish his affronted gasp, Anathema hurriedly says, “Not actually bombing it! My grandfather on my dad’s side was rescued from a hospital by an Anthony Crowley right before it got bombed.”

All the air rushes out of Aziraphale’s lungs. He looks to Crowley, who’s sputtering. Crowley presses his lips together, looks down at the table, and catches Aziraphale’s eye, speaking to him instead of Anathema. 

“I was working for Nazi intelligence. Well, more like keeping generally informed. They were going to bomb a hospital just to cause a stir, no use to it whatsoever. And the hospital was mostly kids. Come on, they’re just _kids._ ” He pauses, scratches at something on the table. “I didn’t do anything really noticeable by my kind, no demonic miracles. Pretty easy to steal some delivery trucks and evacuate the place, actually.” He shrugs. “Hospital got bombed, Nazis are happy, no one got hurt.”

“Did this fulfill some greater demonic plan?” Newt asks, though he looks terrified the moment he asks. Anathema hits him in the arm. 

“Tha-”

“Best not thank me,” Crowley interrupts. “Or, I guess, thank me all you want. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh, but Crowley, it _does_ matter.” Aziraphale has to stop his hand in midair as it reaches out to hold Crowley’s where it rests on the table. “You saved all those people!”

Crowley bristles. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does anyone else. 

“Shall we go to the next store?” Anathema suggests brightly. She takes care of the bill, despite Aziraphale’s protests, and they continue on with their day.

\--

Aziraphale lays awake that night in his twin bed, Crowley snoring lightly across the room. He had never slept consistently as an angel, and though his human body is exhausted, his mind is still wide awake. 

He had not asked for further details but he can see it now: Crowley pulling up to the emergency exit of the hospital after calling in a tip about a bombing, maybe wearing a disguise so he appears more trustworthy. He brings them somewhere safe, and when a child asks what his name is, he gives it freely, without thought. 

That child would have been Anathema’s grandfather. Coincidence exists but Aziraphale knows that fate does as well, and he cannot get his mind away from the latter. 

Crowley is a good person; whether he admits it now or never does not matter to Aziraphale. It never really has. 

He thinks back to Agnes’ prophecy, the words “ _the forgiven and the freed”._ The words circle around his head like a carousel until he finally drifts off to a dreamless sleep. 

\--

The next morning, Aziraphale wakes to the inviting smell of maple syrup. Crowley is still sacked out, so Aziraphale very quietly extracts himself from the bed and follows the scent to the kitchen. 

The sun is shining gorgeously through the entirety of the cottage, bringing out the gold in the old wood and filling Aziraphale with energy.

“Good morning,” Anathema greets cheerfully. “Coffee?”

“That would be lovel-” Aziraphale is cut off by a yawn. It’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation, though he doesn’t care for the way his ears pop. “Pardon me.”

He thanks her as she places a fresh mug on the table. “Breakfast will be another fifteen minutes or so, so if you want to shower, be my guest. There are extra towels and such in the closet.”

“That’s very kind of you, dear. I’m afraid Crowley and I have a long trip ahead of us.” Aziraphale takes a sip of the coffee but jerks back as it burns his tongue. It stings and leaves the tip raw and rough, and he tries to heal himself before realising he can’t. 

It’s possible his disappointment is written all over his face, because Anathema says, rather apologetically, “Burns suck, but they heal pretty fast on their own. Here.” She hands him a glass of cool water, which helps. 

“I have much to learn,” Aziraphale states. He means it to sound optimistic, but even he has to admit it is dripping in defeat. 

“You can stay here for a while longer, if you’d like. Newt and I could teach you to cook, we can answer your questions, just until you feel ready.”

Aziraphale takes her hand in his; like this, the touch offers a form of comfort Aziraphale had never yearned for in the past, but now he clings tighter, as if their bond of friendship hangs in the balance. It gives him courage. 

“My dear, you are too kind. I do not think I will ever be ready.” He pauses, drops her hand so she can return to stirring her bowl of batter. “Crowley has one of those, erm, mobile devices. Perhaps we could call you on it from time to time, or if we have a question?” 

“Who am I calling?” Crowley’s voice, low and rough, circles around the corner, preceding him. He’s still in his pyjamas, same as Aziraphale, though Crowley’s are a simple grey t-shirt and dark tartan pants. Aziraphale prefers his own matching blue set, though it is a charming sight to see Crowley looking so...at home, in a cozy scenario such as this.

“Me. Us, Newt and me.” Anathema clarifies. “Coffee?”

“Yes please,” Crowley drawls, plopping himself into the kitchen chair getting the most direct sunlight. 

“Crowley, you know how to cook, right?” Aziraphale asks.

“I know the basics,” Crowley says, then hisses because he, too, has burned his tongue on his coffee. 

“It’ll heal quickly,” Aziraphale says. “See, my dear, we will get by just fine.”

“You’re not leaving already,” Newt cuts in, appearing through the front door, holding herbs from the garden. 

“After breakfast, yes,” Aziraphale confirms. “We are going to Edinburgh today. We’ve never been. Well, yes, we’ve both been, but we’ve never been together. I mean, _there_ together.” He suddenly feels very winded. 

“Oh! Well, a family friend rents out a cottage in the South of Edinburgh,” Newt says with a grin. “I’d be happy to call and see if it is available.”

“That would be terrific. We may stop for a rest along the way, it’s a very long drive you know.”

“It’s only seven hours, isn’t it?” Anathema asks. 

“Well, yes, but I haven’t seen much of northern England,” Aziraphale says over Crowley’s scoff. 

“I’ll call them now,” Newt offers. 

Aziraphale excuses himself to take a shower, and is delighted to realize that the experience is even more enjoyable when human. He shivers until he finds a tolerable warmth, then scrubs himself down with a lavender-scented shampoo and conditioner. He laments that he must rush to breakfast, as he could spend hours under the spray. 

Choosing his outfit is just as fun as it has always been. He tries out some grey joggers Newt had assured him were very comfortable, perfect for a long drive. The purple t-shirt catches his eye again, so he donnes it and makes his way to the table, where Anathema is setting down a large stack of hot cakes, syrup, and various berries.

Aziraphale savours every bite of the home-cooked breakfast. 

“What will you do for money?” Anathema asks as Aziraphale is taking a piece from his second cake. She is already done her plate, but sips her coffee as Crowley replies. 

“I have some stored away.” Crowley, too, is done his breakfast. “Dunno how long it will last, but we’ll be fine.”

“I do as well,” Aziraphale offers. He will certainly not miss auditors walking into his shop, demanding bank statements and such. 

“If you ever need any, I would be happy to help. Money is no object in my family,” Anathema offers, though she blushes as if ashamed. 

Aziraphale pats his mouth with his napkin. “And here I thought I was the angel,” he jokes.

They pack up - Crowley had taken all of his plants out to get their proper sunlight yesterday, so re-packing them in the trailer takes the majority of their time - and Anathema sends them off with some sandwiches and vegetables. Newt hands Aziraphale a bag of crisps.

“They’re my favourite road trip snack,” he says conspiratorially.

Aziraphale gives them both tight hugs. The feeling is astronomically pleasant, much better than the simple hand holding from earlier. It feels both like a thank-you and a promise: one day they will, if possible, return the enormous favour the two had done for Aziraphale and Crowley. 

Crowley gives them both handshakes, and yet again Aziraphale wishes he could see more of Crowley’s expression behind his new sunglasses. 

As Crowley pulls away from the cottage, Aziraphale turns back to take one more look. Its entire sense of home has taken a place in his heart, and he knows that he and Crowley will find something similar, wherever it is they end up.

\--

Though Aziraphale has spent many hours in vehicles, specifically Crowley’s, he still must take frequent breaks. Stretching his legs has never felt so rewarding, and he now understands why humans call going to the loo “relieving oneself”. He can only distract himself with leafing through Agnes Nutter’s book - which, by the way, doesn’t seem to offer any guidance for the foreseeable future - for so long. 

By hour three, Crowley tsks and taps the steering wheel.

“We need petrol,” Crowley says. “Where’s the nearest station?” 

“Uh…” Aziraphale studies the map, being very careful not to get it in Crowley’s line of vision. Again. “Ah! Here we are. Yes, there’s a motorway service station not too far along. It will be on your right in-”

Crowley veers off the road, and Aziraphale's heart seems to lodge in his throat. He feels much the same way he did in the clothing shop: frightened. 

“Here we are.” Crowley grunts as he puts the car in park. 

They exit the car at the same time, the fresh breeze pushing Aziraphale’s hair out of his face. There’s an advertisement posted on the shops’ window that catches his eye

“You know, I’ve never tried a slush,” Aziraphale says, more to himself than Crowley. 

Crowley leans on the hood of his car. “If you get one, get a small one. You will _not_ spill that thing in my car.”

Aziraphale registers that with a nod and bounces towards the shop’s doors. 

The air conditioning is blasting in here, so much so that Aziraphale hardly understands the need to put anything in the refrigerators lining the back wall. He spots the slush machine in the back corner, and he beelines for it. 

There are two flavours, though neither have a name. One is an electric blue and the other a vermilion red. It’s impossible to choose, so he helps himself to the smallest cup available and combines the two. 

The young man at the counter is flipping through a magazine. He puts it down when Aziraphale approaches, ringing in the slush before Aziraphale has put it on the counter. 

“Anything else for ya?” He asks. 

Aziraphale is about to say no when he catches sight of something on display

“Which of those mobile devices is best?” He asks. 

The young man shrugs. “All about the same. Can’t do much with ‘em, though.”

“That’s quite alright,” Aziraphale responds. He grabs a light grey one close to him. “This as well, please.”

As Aziraphale is paying, Crowley walks through the doors. “Number 2.”

“Cr- Anthony, look what I bought.” Aziraphale holds out the phone, still in its packaging, nearly hitting Crowley in the face with it. 

“That’s fantastic,” Crowley says, dodging Aziraphale and bringing out his wallet to pay. “Have you tried the slush yet?” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims. He takes the slush off the counter and takes a large sip. The red, indeed a cherry flavour, is so sweet and refreshing. 

And so _cold._

Not a moment later, the roof of his mouth to the top of his head feels like it is being squished in a vice. He cries out, nearly dropping the slush to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley practically yells, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

The pain subsides slowly, but Aziraphale is at least able to speak. “Not sure.”

“Probably just a brain freeze,” the attendant says. 

“A what?” Crowley asks, before Aziraphale can. 

The attendant squints, looks between the two of them. “A brain freeze, you know? Like when you drink something really cold and it hurts for a bit?” 

“Oh, yes, that,” Aziraphale says, though he’s still unclear how humans function when their brains have the ability to freeze. “Nothing to worry about, then. Shall we?”

He tries another, much smaller, sip of the slush before he gets into the car and is relieved when his brain does not freeze this time. With a promise not to spill it, they are off once again.

\--

As expected, they need to stop for a rest about an hour later. 

“There’s the town of Leeds, just West,” Aziraphale suggests. “There are probably a few bed and breakfasts to choose from.” 

There are, in fact, many bed and breakfasts in Leeds. However, all of them have no vacancy, except for one: a place called _The Bungalow._

“We would be happy to accommodate you!” The lady, Eleanor, says.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says as she rings up their price. He turns to give Crowley a thumbs up, who then pulls into the parking lot. 

After he pays, she hands him a key and points to her left. “There’s a kitchen over there, if you’d like to help yourself to coffee or tea. My husband bakes some cinnamon rolls today, there may be a few left. If you need a proper supper, there’s a restaurant just down the road on the right.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Crowley comes in the door, then, and they both follow Eleanor down the hall to their room. 

The room is quaint, blessed with the golden yellow of the setting sun. Only-

“I’ll be at the desk if you need anything,” Eleanor says brightly before leaving them alone. 

“I had thought there would be two beds,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

Crowley drops his small duffel bag on the large armchair in the corner. “I can sleep here,” he offers, voice flat. 

“No!” Aziraphale exclaims, probably too rushed. He clears his throat. “No, I- it won’t be a problem. I had misheard her, is all.” His palms are very sweaty now, and he tries to covertly wipe them as he drops his own duffel on the ground beside the right side of the bed. 

Crowley shrugs. “Alright. I’m starving, angel.”

The promise of food doesn’t do much to soothe the stinging reminder that Crowley’s pet name for Aziraphale is no longer fitting. He does not speak on it, though. Instead, he leads Crowley to the restaurant Eleanor had mentioned. 

“I think I will try a grilled cheese,” Aziraphale says, after thoroughly studying the menu. He wiggles against the cushy leather of the booth. 

“All the foods to choose from…” Crowley mutters as he reads the menu. “Screw it, I will too.” 

Grilled cheese is, unsurprisingly, a delectable experience. It comes with a side of tomato soup, which seems like an odd combination until Aziraphale bravely dunks a bite of the sandwich into the soup and moans happily as a glorious combination of flavours saturating his mouth and his belly. 

“I think I finally understand what humans mean by _comfort food_ ,” Aziraphale declares. “You should try it.”

Crowley does, but his expression barely changes as he takes a bite. “‘S good.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “Is something the matter?” 

Crowley shrugs again, the motion bringing him up slightly from his slouched position. “Nah.” 

Aziraphale waits patiently for Crowley to elaborate. He doesn’t, and the rest of their meal features very little more than the sound of chewing and soft rock music through tinny speakers. 

Exhaustion permeates Aziraphale’s veins the moment they walk into their room, and it takes all his effort not to collapse onto the bed fully clothed. He shuffles through his bag and frowns at all the wrinkles on his pyjamas, but dons them nonetheless. 

His stomach flutters incessantly when he tucks himself under the covers. Crowley is gargling mouthwash in the bathroom, so Aziraphale turns away and tries to force himself to sleep so he doesn’t have to process why the thought of Crowley getting in beside him is so nerve-wracking. 

His attempt fails, and the mattress dips, the bedsheets whooshing to let a much-needed breeze over Aziraphale’s entire body. Crowley grunts, exhales loudly. 

“Goodnight,” Aziraphale mumbles. Turned this way, he can’t tell whether they are as far apart as they can be, but he is nearly at the edge of his side of the bed. Still, he can feel the flames of heat radiating off his companion. 

“Mnn. Night,” Crowley replies. 

As his heart returns to its normal rhythm, the exhaustion returns, and Aziraphale is asleep between one breath and the next. 

\--

That night, Aziraphale dreams for the very first time. 

He’s in Hell, being dragged along in chains by the demon he had seen at the air base. 

“Where are we going?” He asks. His voice sounds far away, muffled. 

“The pit,” is all the demon replies. 

And then he’s falling, falling, falling, into darkness. 

\--

He wakes, terrified. He’s drenched in sweat and his breath is rapid. It’s so dark, he’s worried he’s still in the pit. 

But then he registers a warmth along his back. 

Crowley.

They’re not touching, exactly, but Crowley is definitely curled to Aziraphale’s form. Aziraphale can blame the dream, or the fact that Crowley’s breathing is deep and even so he probably won’t even notice. He carefully scooches his body back until their bodies are pressed together. 

Crowley’s arm comes around and lays on Aziraphale’s waist. It only takes a second for Aziraphale’s breathing to return to normal. He’s not in the pit, he’s safe on Earth with Crowley. 

They’re together and they’re safe. That’s what matters.

\--

Everything is red behind Aziraphale’s eyelids. Through the fog of sleepiness, he squints, then blinks his eyes open. 

It’s just the sun, streaming blindingly through the window. He closes his eyes again, pleased to hear the birds chirping outside, especially the sparrows. 

He’s also wildly pleased to still feel Crowley pressed against him, perhaps even closer. Crowley’s hand has found bare skin on Aziraphale’s stomach and it feels like its own brand of embrace. 

He takes a deep breath, dares no to move. He wants to commit this moment to memory. He can still remember the fear from his dream, his nightmare, but it feels like a distant memory now, fading out the more he focuses on it. 

Crowley’s breath is hot on Aziraphale’s neck, but he doesn’t mind. Who knows what Crowley would think of this…position. He’d better appreciate it while it lasts. 

There is a strange feeling near where his buttock meets his leg. Something that is definitely attached to Crowley, because as Aziraphale moves his hips minutely the thing stays hard and-

Heat shoots up through Aziraphale’s spine at the same time butterflies flit about in his stomach. His own cock begins to fill. He shifts his hips back and forth, up and down, just testing, and is thrilled when it feels just as good as the first time. His cock fills more and he has the urge to grab it, or better yet, Crowley’s hand is right there, what if he were to do it?

“Mmmm?” Crowley grunts. Aziraphale freezes, remembering himself. Shame and embarrassment replace all other emotions and he closes his eyes more firmly, hoping to appear asleep. 

Crowley doesn’t say anything else, but his breathing rate has changed. It stops for a moment before Crowley stiffens. 

The next moment that passes feels like an eternity. One thousand years, maybe. At the end of it, Crowley rolls away, shifting to the other side of the bed. 

Aziraphale feels cold at his back and throughout his entire body. Well. That’s that then. 

He counts to five hundred, makes sure Crowley sounds entirely asleep again, gently lifts the bedcovers, then slowly removes himself from the bed. 

He is not sure why he has the same tightness in his chest as when he had learned about his bookshop burning down. It stays there all morning, despite any distractions.

\--

Neither of them bring it up, which is probably for the best. They help themselves to the provided breakfast, and Eleanor teaches Aziraphale how to use this wonderful contraption called a Keurig. It’s the environmentally-friendly model, apparently. She tells him of another model that uses disposable plastic cups instead of reusable filters - Aziraphale suspects Crowley might be behind that one

He makes a coffee for himself and Crowley, which they take on a bright and cloudless morning walk around a hiking trail that traces hills covered in wildflowers and dandelions. 

It is so much simpler to comment on the beauty of the landscape than face his own incredibly confusing feelings, so that is what Aziraphale does. 

“I have done so much travelling in my days, and yet it’s as if I’m experiencing all this for the first time,” Aziraphale notes as he watches a happy bumblebee flit from one flower to the next. 

Crowley humms. “I suppose.” 

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asks. He sips his coffee for something to do while he waits for Crowley to remove the pinched expression from his face and explain. 

“I just can’t help but think that this is some cosmic joke,” Crowley says eventually. He drags his foot along the gravel. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss performing miracles. Missing that…”

“Power, yes,” Aziraphale finishes. “My grace was intertwined so closely with everything I’ve ever done, it’s all so different now. I miss it. No doubt. But we’re safe now, aren’t we?”

Facing Crowley head on, Aziraphale studies every minute change on his friend’s face. The aviators only cover so much. 

“It is alright to feel sorrow, Crowley. To mourn the loss of our past lives. And we...we still have each other.” 

They’re standing quite close. Not as close as they had been this morning, not close enough for Aziraphale’s newly-found desire. 

All he wants is to be enough for Crowley. 

Crowley looks away, steps away. The pang of rejection is impossible to hide on his face, but Aziraphale hopes Crowley doesn’t notice. 

“Yes, you’re right.” Crowley sighs, scans the landscape. “Guess this form of freedom will just take a while to get used to.” 

“Shall we continue to Edinburgh?” Aziraphale suggests. 

Crowley nods. “Newt texted me this morning. The cottage is ours for two months, if we need that long. We can find somewhere to live in the meantime.” 

The thought of buying a house suddenly seems so intense. But perhaps it is a sign from the Almighty that they are on the right path. 

“Excellent!” Aziraphale exclaims. Though, at the back of his mind, he wonders if this is what Crowley really wants. And, even more frightening, if Aziraphale can deal with these budding feelings that Crowley clearly does not want to reciprocate. 

\--

The drive is just as, or even more, stunning than the day before. Aziraphale had known that there was still significant greenery outside the large city centres, but it seems as if they are in another world. 

Perhaps it is because of the Mozart playing too, but Aziraphale can clearly recall his fond memories from his last voyage to Scotland. He recounts these memories to Crowley as they drive, unable to stop speaking once he starts. Crowley listens patiently, asking appropriate questions and listening as attentively as he always does. 

In no time, they are driving into a quiet community that is reminiscent of a story Aziraphale had read once. Though that story had been rather morbid, the imagery of breadcrumbs and cozy cottages take precedence in his mind. 

“We’re looking for number 13,” Crowley directs. 

“How lucky for us!” Aziraphale jokes. “Ah, there it is!” 

The cottage he points at is unkempt only in that its front lawn needs a trim. Otherwise, it is just as crisp and cozy as any other on the drive. From its cream-coloured roof to the chestnut brown brick to the bright yellow front door, it’s undeniably welcoming. 

Aziraphale cannot wipe the smile off his face as he gets out of the car. “Have you ever seen a more charming home?” He asks.

Crowley doesn’t respond to that, but Aziraphale hadn’t needed him to. Instead, he says, “the neighbour at 14 has a spare key and knows we’re coming.” 

“Oh, how exciting, we get to meet our neighbours,” Aziraphale says gleefully as he waits for Crowley to catch up to him on the sidewalk.

“Our temporary neighbours,” Crowley corrects. 

“Yes, yes.” They’ve arrived at number 14, and Aziraphale presses the doorbell once, then twice for good measure. 

A woman opens the door, smiles warmly. “Hello,” she greets. 

“Hello, we heard you are the ones with the key to that cottage over there,” Aziraphale says. 

“Oh! You’re Newt’s friends?” She asks.

“Yes! It’s lovely to meet you. I’m, well-” Aziraphale cuts himself off, at a loss for how to introduce himself.

“This is Ezra. I’m Anthony,” Crowley cuts in.

Aziraphale smiles. Ezra. _Ezra._ Yes, he can get used to calling himself that, he supposes.

“Pleasure to meet you both. I’m Henriette.” She takes a key from a hook on the wall, hands it over. “My husband William will be home in a few hours. Feel free to come by later for tea.” 

“We would be delighted. Good afternoon,” Aziraphale replies. He takes Crowley’s hand and they walk down the steps together. 

Hold on.

He’s holding Crowley’s hand. Why did he take it? Why is he still holding it? Why does it feel so comforting? And-and why is Crowley clinging back, like Aziraphale isn’t allowed to let go?

He doesn’t say anything about it. He only attempts to commit this strange, isolated moment to memory, before it ends as they walk through the front door of their cottage. 

\--

Moving in is easier than expected. Since they will only be staying here a short while, Azirapahle elects to have his books stay in their boxes, so the majority of their afternoon is spent finding the optimum spaces for Crowley’s plants. Aziraphale doesn’t try to help, just follows Crowley’s directions. 

They have tea with their neighbours, and William, as luck would have it, is a real estate agent. He promises to show them some cottages nearby over the coming week. 

It all seems so easy. Too easy, much too simple and straightforward to get used to. Aziraphale feels as if he’s holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He thinks it happens when he spills wine on his sweater, but Henriette shows him how to get the stain out with some detergent. It could be when they get back to their cottage and the alcohol gets to Aziraphale’s head, making him woozy in a way he would miracle away, but he drinks some water and finds the unpleasant feeling subsides. The ache of loss is there, no doubt, but he can ignore it for now. 

He had not expected the sinking feelings to arrive when Crowley saunters in to the living space where Aziraphale is reading one of the poetry books supplied by the cottage. Crowley is wearing a dark, flowing tank top long enough that he doesn’t seem to be wearing any shorts underneath, clearly ready for bed. 

“You’ll be taking the bedroom on the left, then?” Crowley asks. 

It’s true, Aziraphale had put his bags of clothing and essentials in one of the bedrooms, but it had only been for convenience. “If that is where you would like me to be?” He asks, heart hammering with hope that Crowley grasps Aziraphale’s intention. 

Crowley screws up his face a bit, shrugging. Aziraphale notes that the brown of Crowley's irises are so dark, he can hardly tell the pupils apart anymore. It seems important, for some inexplicable reason. 

“No, um,” Crowley replies, shaking his head. “I’m fine in the one just across the hall, no worries.” 

Aziraphale’s face falls. He hopes it isn’t too obvious. “Oh. Alright. Have a good sleep, then. Would you like me to wake you in the morning?” 

“Sure, whenever,” Crowley says. He turns, stalks out of the room. “Night, angel.” 

“Goodnight,” Aziraphale replies, too quiet and too late for Crowley to hear it.

\--

The next morning, while Aziraphale practices texting Anathema, Crowley goes through the kitchen cupboards. They’re both startled by a knock at the front door. 

Aziraphale answers it. “William!” He says. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” William says, happily following Aziraphale into the kitchen, where Crowley has taken out every mug and put it on the counter. “Doing some tidying, are we?” 

“Just trying to find a coffee grinder,” Crowley mutters. “Tea?” 

“Please.” William sits where Aziraphale pulls out a chair, putting a large folder on the table. “I’ve put together some files of cottages nearby you might like.” 

“Oh, so quick!” Aziraphale answers excitedly. 

William shrugs. “Just helped another couple find a place, so it’s no bother really.” 

Aziraphale pointedly avoids Crowley’s eyes. “Yes, well, we’ll be happy to look through what you have.” 

It turns out there are many options, all within a half-hour drive. 

“I think I’d like to see this one first,” Aziraphale says, pointing at a bungalow with plenty of wildflowers. “Anthony?”

“Yes, that one looks fine,” Crowley says rather flatly. 

Aziraphale tilts his head toward Crowley. “Is there another you’d prefer?”

Crowley inhales, shakes his head. “No, they’re all fine.” When Aziraphale does not look away, Crowley looks back at the listings and points at another bungalow, with a long front driveway. “This one is acceptable too. Big front windows.”

William nods. “I’ll contact the agents for these two, then. Any days this week work for showings?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged shrugs. “Anytime,” Aziraphale says. 

“Alright,” William says, packing up his things. “Are you two headed to the festival today?”

Ah, the festival! Aziraphale had forgotten about it. “Yes, I believe we are!” He exclaims. 

“We are?” Crowley mouths to Aziraphale behind William’s back. 

Aziraphale nods, sternly. “Will you be there as well?” He opens the front door for William. 

“‘M going tomorrow. Let me know if any of the food is good, yeah?”

“Happily,” Aziraphale says. “Mind how you go.”

“So, the festival,” Crowley drawls after Aziraphale closes the door behind William.

Aziraphale sighs. “I understand if you don’t want to go.”

“No, ‘s fine,” Crowley replies. “Going to be a fair day anyway, shouldn’t waste it.”

It is, in fact, a beautiful day. Aziraphale tries out one of the whit collared dress shirts and a cream linen blazer, pleased with the breathability and style. He’s getting used to the person staring back at him in the mirror, even allowing the beard to stay. For a while there, it had felt like a disguise. Now, he can see himself again. 

Crowley’s wearing all black, again, but it looks stylish. He’s cleanly shaved, already wearing a pair of sunglasses that Azirapahle remembers seeing while Crowley was still a demon. 

The festival itself is just as Aziraphale had remembered. He has not been in perhaps 30 years, but he is filled with the same feelings of excitement and wonder. It’s easy to get lost in it, to be dazzled by an act and clap wildly along with the crowd. 

Crowley has always been a quieter participant, letting Aziraphale take the reins on the cheering. Today is no different, Aziraphale leading the way from show to show while Crowley follows dutifully. Aziraphale worries on and off that Crowley isn’t enjoying himself, but he slyly catches Crowley at least half-smiling during every performance. Once, during the late afternoon ballet performance, Aziraphale turns to grin at Crowley and finds Crowley is already looking at him, a closed-mouth smile that reaches his eyes. Crowley blinks and falters like he’s been caught, which is puzzling - there’s no need to be ashamed in finding joy in the arts. 

As they leave their seats, Aziraphale catches a sign for the nighttime performance, already in session. 

“Oh, Cr-Anthony!” Aziraphale exclaims. “We’re missing the opera. We must come back tomorrow.” 

“If you’d like,” Crowley says, cleaning a smudge on his sunglasses.

Aziraphale’s mouth twitches. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” When he really wants to ask _Crowley, is something wrong?_

“No, it sounds enticing enough,” Crowley replies. “ _Breaking the Waves._ Already sounds better than _The Sound of Music._ ” 

Only partly reassured, Azirapahle wrings his hands and watches Crowley carefully for any sign that this is the wrong thing to do. They’ve spent more time consecutively together than they have since the beginning of time, yet Aziraphale feels farther away from Crowley than ever.

He stays puzzled all through the night. He doesn’t wish to admit that him keeps him up, or that he checks the Agnes Nutter book like it’s some kind of magic 8-ball. 

The next morning, William informs them that they can have both showings the following day. That gives Aziraphale the rest of the day to get thoroughly excited for the opera. 

He successfully makes eggs benedict from one of Anathema’s recipe books. It’s the only time before they have to leave that Crowley leaves his room. 

It’s alright. Crowley is simply adjusting. Aziraphale can be patient, despite how badly he wants his friend back. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, knocking on Crowley’s bedroom door. “What are you planning on wearing tonight? I was thinking of wearing a suit-” 

He’s cut off by Crowley opening the door. He’s just in a towel wrapped around his waist and held up only by his hand. Aziraphale tries not to stare, but it is difficult. Crowley has a very nice chest, a pronounced curve at his waist. His chest hair is still damp. 

Focus, Aziraphale.

“One of these two” Crowley asks, sauntering over to his own closet and pointing at two hangers. One is a cut, blacker than black suit, and the other is a ligjtngrey with a subtle tartan design. The idea of Crowley in it, maybe with a deep magenta to match the accent colour on the suit is, for lack of a better word, very tempting. 

“When did you get this one?” Aziraphale asks, hoping he sounds casual. 

Crowley shrugs. “Can’t recall. Think I bought it off an actor, actually. ‘Ve never worn it.”

“Then wear it!” Aziraphale says excitedly. He heads back to his own room with a pep in his step, picking out a navy suit that suddenly seems very appropriate. He even attempts a bowtie, and is relieved it does not constrict his throat. 

When they show each other their outfits on, Aziraphale’s mind blanks. Crowley opens and closes his mouth a few times. Aziraphale blushes under the attention. 

“Good?” He asks, proud he is even able to get out a single syllable. 

Crowley nods, purses his lips. “Yeah. Good.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach does a flip. Maybe he should get that looked at by a physician. “Thank you. You are- you look quite handsome, Crowley.” 

Crowley turns to the hallway mirror, shrugs. “Happy it fits.” 

They don’t say much else, not on the drive or while they wait for the doors to open at the festival. Aziraphale finds a bartender and gets both himself and Crowley a flavourful red wine, then another. 

Aziraphale is grateful he had brought a handkerchief, because the opera moves him to tears with his beauty, its rawness. He pointedly avoids Crowley’s gaze, as it is inexplicably important for Crowley not to see him like this. 

Near the end, though, Aziraphale hears a sharp intake of breath from his left. He turns to see Crowley, jaw set in place, a gleam in his eye. 

Aziraphale cannot help it, he lays his hand atop Crowley’s where it sits on his lap. He does so lightly, expecting Crowley to pull away, preparing himself for that inner disappointment. 

But Crowley doesn’t pull away. He lets Aziraphale hold on, and with a subtle breath of relief, Aziraphale once again watches the stage. He can’t control the fluttering in his chest, but he doesn’t mind.

\--

Aziraphale blinks awake to the sound of birds, the heat of the sun on his face. Usually, he loves waking up like this, but not today. There’s a thick, sickly sweet taste in his mouth and his head is _pounding._

It comes back to him: after they get home from the opera, he and Crowley had shared a bottle of wine. They hadn’t talked much, just sat on the same couch while the cozy room was suffused with music from Aziraphale’s record player. Aziraphale had gone back to his own room. 

He needs water. 

Checking the clock, he has a few hours before William comes over to show them the two cottages. He spends the time tidying and making breakfast. His headache hardly subsides.

Like he’s psychic, Crowley stumbles into the kitchen as Aziraphale is plating the scrambled eggs and potatoes.

“My head is in a vice,” he says by way of greeting. 

“I think they call it a hangover,” Aziraphale says quietly, placing Crowley’s plate and a tall glass of water in front of him. “This should help.”

“Ungh,” Crowley grumbles. He eats his breakfast in silence. 

By the time William comes over, Aziraphale feels loads better. 

“Ready to go, gents?” William asks. 

“Yes!” Aziraphale says, grinning. 

They follow William first to the cottage Crowley had picked. It’s very sweet, indeed with plenty of areas for Crowley to put his houseplants. Aziraphale appreciates its simple design and can imagine decorating the empty rooms with cozy furniture and his books. 

The second house, though, grabs ahold of Aziraphale’s heart before they even walk in the door. Not only are the wildflowers bordering the property as gorgeous as those in the first Garden, there is plenty of room for an outdoor garden. It reminds Aziraphale of his time as the gardener for the Dowlings, and he has this image in his mind’s eye of planting all sorts of flowers and vegetables. Maybe Crowley would want to help. 

Aziraphale must have made some sort of indication that he was already charmed by the property, because William says, “Yes, I thought you’d like this place.” 

It’s funny; the inside of the cottage is simple and bare, but Aziraphale is hit with such a strong sense of _home_ that there is no doubt this is where he belongs. The wood trim is the same colour as his bookshop’s, and the sun finds a way through every angle, every window. 

“Will this be suitable for your plants?” Aziraphale asks, hope so clearly written on his face it could be seen from the moon. 

Crowley gives Aziraphale a full smile, the kind of smile Aziraphale has only seen when Crowley thinks he’s come up with a perfect trick or when he’s on the jolly side of intoxicated. “Yes, I think so.” 

“I’ll put the offer in, then?” William asks. 

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says brightly. 

Their offer is accepted only a few days later; they’ll move in by the end of the month. Aziraphale looks skyward when he hangs up the phone after getting the news from William.

“Thank you,” he whispers quietly. 

\--

It’s a sunny day, and Aziraphale is out for a stroll around the town centre. He’s sipping on an iced coffee, something he has never tried before but will happily purchase again. 

A sign in the window of one of the shops catches his eye: HELP WANTED. 

He looks up, delighted to see that it’s a bookshop. Well, then. If they need help…

“Crowley, you won’t believe what happened to me today!” Aziraphale says, not two seconds after he walks in the cottage door, a few hours later. 

He finds Crowley watering his plants, the ones that need mostly shade.

“Crowley, I got a job,” Aziraphale declares. 

Crowley turns, raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

Aziraphale nods emphatically. “At the bookshop in town. Just a few days a week. How exciting it will be to actually want to give away books to customers! “

Crowley smiles, nods. He’s not wearing sunglasses but he might as well be, the way Aziraphale cannot tell anything from the distance in his eyes. 

“Maybe there’s a job of sorts for you to do in town as well,” Aziraphale tries. 

“Nah, not my scene,” Crowley says, walking past Aziraphale to go to the window where his full-sun plants need watering. 

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side. “Don’t you want something to do?”

Aziraphale can only see Crowley’s back, but it’s not difficult to see Crowley stiffen. “I had something to do, Aziraphale. For six thousand years. I was demoted, remember? Same as you.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach turns into one big knot. “That’s not true,” he says weakly.

“Oh yeah?” Crowley says, turning to Aziraphale. There’s emotion in his eyes, now, a tightness that Aziraphale can’t place as either pain or anger. “I cut my finger the other day and I bled all over one of my favourite shirts. I still haven’t healed fully and I can’t get the stain out. I can’t feel the raw power of Hell at my disposal. My damned plants aren’t even afraid of me anymore!” He’s yelling by the end, anger directed at the entire room, though it all seems to rebound and pierce right through Aziraphale’s heart. 

“You’re so much more than what you were, Crowley,” Aziraphale tries. His voice is thin. “Remember Agnes Nutter’s prophecy? It said “ _the forgiven and the freed”_. We’re free, Crowley. God has done this for us.” 

Crowley’s mouth is a thin line, his eyes glistening. “This doesn’t feel like freedom.” 

He blows past Aziraphale and goes to his room, slamming the door behind him. 

Aziraphale bites his lip. He walks into his own room, shutting the door quietly. Gets under the covers. 

He should eat supper. But he doesn’t have an appetite anymore, and he doesn’t see it coming back any time soon. 

\--

Aziraphale likes chores. He had done them on and off when he was an angel (anything to avoid more strongly worded notes, really), but he had not needed a routine for them. Now, he appreciates the structure they offer to a life he is learning how to live. Plus, the satisfaction of a sparkling stovetop and a just-vacuumed carpet is its own source of happiness. 

He’s dusting Crowley’s bedroom while Crowley is out getting food for dinner - they had enjoyed a farmer’s market a few days prior and Crowley wanted to go back to get more vegetables - and something catches his eye. 

A large, dark green book peaks out from under the bed. Aziraphale puts down his dusting cloth to examine the book. 

“ _The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy,”_ Aziraphale reads aloud. “Hmm.” 

He flips through it, wondering where in the cottage Crowley could have found it. He doesn’t have to wonder long, though, because he flips to a page with a bright sun on it. 

_Alpha Centauri._

This must mean something to Crowley. Aziraphale yearns to ask him about it, but they have yet to have any meaningful discussions in the past two weeks. Nothing beyond talk of dinner and what has happened on the reality TV shows Crowley had created in the early 2000’s. 

Suddenly, he is stricken with the most exciting idea. He puts the book back in its place, grabs his dusting cloth, deposits it in the kitchen sink, and heads straight for the neighbours’. 

Henriette is the one to open the door. “Ezra!” She exclaims, letting Azirapahle through the doorway. “What do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Hello, Henriette. I was hoping you would know if there were any places nearby the one could look more closely at the stars. Anthony loves them, the stars, I mean, and I was hoping to surprise him,” Aziraphale says, far too quickly. 

Henriette smiles. “Oh! Well, there’s the Royal Observatory up on Blackford Hill. I was just there with my sister not too long ago, I’m sure I still have the brochure somewhere…” She leafs through some papers on her kitchen table until she apparently finds what she’s looking for, handing it over to Aziraphale. “Here it is! It’s an easy drive.” 

She explains how to get there, and with that Aziraphale is back to his cottage, beaming. 

Crowley pulls in to the drive only a few minutes after Aziraphale returns. 

“I had to wrestle with a woman for the last bag of zucchini, but I got them,” he announces, dropping a few bags onto the kitchen counter. Aziraphale unloads them, then washes and chops them up while Crowley gives a story about an argument he had about eggplants that takes longer than his entire trip to the market. 

Aziraphale puts the chopped vegetables in the oven to roast, smiling hugely at them, proud of himself for this relatively major accomplishment. Six thousand years, he hadn’t considered cooking for himself, and now it is a source of imagination and joy. 

“Would you like anything else with dinner? We still have some cheddar buns from yesterday.” Aziraphale says.

“Do we have any more of those frozen chicken tenders? I love those things,” Crowley replies, snooping through the freezer himself. “Aha!” He exclaims, pulling out the box and dumping them on a cookie sheet to be put in the oven alongside the vegetables. 

The meal is delicious, and they have it with a flavoured iced tea that dances with flavour on Aziraphale’s tongue. 

Once everything is cleaned up, Aziraphale wrings his hands, hoping Crowley will not retreat to his room immediately, like he has done for the previous three nights. “I have an idea for something we can do tonight,” he says, all in one exhale. 

“Yeah?” Crowley asks, picking at a piece of food between his teeth. “What is it?” 

Aziraphale is about to respond, but then he thinks better of it. If he says so now, Crowley might be offended by the idea. He may not want to go. 

“It’s a surprise,” he says instead. 

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “A surprise? Well, alright then. Shall we take the car?” 

“Yes, let’s,” Aziraphale says. He finds a hoodie for himself in the front closet, curious if it will be a chilly evening. 

The road to the observatory is a little uneven but the view is bewitching. The rolling hills after sunset have a sense of mystery that keeps Aziraphale’s attention so much so that they almost miss an important turn, but he catches himself just in time. If Crowley has any clue where they are headed, he doesn’t show it. He mumbles along to the radio, taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and all in all rivals the countryside for catching Azraphale’s interest. 

Aziraphale keeps his distance, though. He knows now that his relationship with Crowley is strictly friends, possibly just acquaintances now. 

Aziraphale studies Crowley’s face closely as they pull into the parking lot, looking for any signs that this has been a bad decision. The only thing that happens is Crowley’s mouth parts a bit. 

Aziraphale waits a moment, then two. “Do you want to go in?” 

Crowley catches Aziraphale’s eye, then looks back at the building. Leans forward to see the large glass contraption on the roof. “Yeah, I suppose.” 

It’s not a _no,_ which is what matters. When they get to the entrance, Aziraphale takes care of the admission and buys a small guidebook. He turns to offer it to Crowley, but he’s already going up a spiral staircase that leads to the roof. 

Aziraphale has always known what the term “breathtaking” means in general human terms, and has had moments like it during his time as an angel, but he understands now why the concept itself was given such an appropriate name. 

The stars are all around them, visible any which way Aziraphale turns. There’s only a few other people in the room but they are quietly taking in the view. Aziraphale spots Crowley and walks to him like a moth drawn to a flame. 

Aziraphale had not spent much time amongst the stars, but now he wishes that he had. As he stands there next to Crowley, he feels both enormous and insignificantly small. When the back of Crowley’s hand brushes his, Aziraphale’s heart jumps, but he isn’t surprised. This is the kind of wonder that deserves to be shared. 

He waits, and waits, and waits, until his patience is finally rewarded and Crowley’s fingers are intertwined with his. They turn, just a half-step, to see out another side of this infinite expanse of sky. 

It may be because Aziraphale feels like he is speaking directly to the stars, that he doesn’t have to look Crowley in the eye, but he finally musters the courage to say what has been under the surface for so long. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t agree to go with you to Alpha Centauri,” he whispers. “I should have. Maybe the apocalypse wouldn’t have happened anyway. Maybe we would still be...us.”

“It was never about Alpha Centauri,” Crowley says. Aziraphale chances a look, but Crowley, too, is staring into the sky. 

“What was it about, then?” Aziraphale asks, knowing the answer but needing so desperately to hear it. 

Crowley sighs. If Aziraphale had not been standing so close, listening so intently, he likely would not have heard it. “You. Always you, Aziraphale. None of the other details matter. We could be up in the stars or back in your bookshop or trapped as bloody humans in Scotland, it doesn’t matter. Not when you’re there.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He’s quite at a loss for words. But he _is_ holding Crowley’s hand, he could give that a squeeze. 

He does, and Crowley squeezes it back. It’s like a fire, steady and warm, grounding between them. 

“From my time in the Garden until the end of the world, I had always believed things could be sorted into black and white. Good and evil, as it were,” Aziraphale says, looking almost directly above him at the bright stars. “Yet at every turn, the grey area demanded to be seen. The sword, the Arrangement, all of it. You showed me how wrong I was, Crowley. I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier.”

“Don’t apologize, Aziraphale. Please don’t apologize. You’re the last person in this world who should apologize to anyone.” Crowley replies. It’s tender and pulls at Aziraphale’s heartstrings. 

“I think. Well, I think I love you, Crowley,” Azirphale stammers. He hates himself immediately for the way he says it, the way it comes out uncertain. And now that he’s said it once, it’s simple to correct. “No. I know it. Yes. I love you, Crowley. And I am confident I always will.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, voice breaking. He’s facing Aziraphale now, so Aziraphale follows suit. It’s slightly more uncomfortable to hold hands this way, but he will not let go for the world. 

“I’m not an angel, anymore, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley smiles and, without sunglasses on, Aziraphale can see the joy spread to his eyes. “You’ll always be an angel to me.” 

Aziraphale blushes. He squeezes Crowley’s hand again and tips his head forward, not too far, just enough to be closer. Closes his eyes. 

It’s easy to imagine, in the quiet of the room and the beauty of the stars around them, that they are the only two in the universe. Perhaps that is all that they need. All that matters. 

\--

That night, Aziraphale follows Crowley to his bedroom. It is by far the most comfortable bed Aziraphale has ever tried. 

“When we first came here, you know I didn’t mean to imply I wanted my own room,” Aziraphale says. He’s still laying on his own side, not touching Crowley, waiting for the other man to make the first move. 

Crowley doesn’t move closer, but he does turn on his side to face Aziraphale. He has the bedcovers tucked under his chin and he looks absolutely snug, his soft brown hair flopping back to tickle the pillow. 

“I think I have misunderstood you, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “I had thought you wouldn’t want me...like this.”

“I hadn’t realised I did until recently,” Aziraphale admits. “I think, while I was still an angel, it was easier to deny it. But I always knew it was different than the love I felt for humanity.”

Crowley gasps lightly. He moves closer now, putting a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek. “You drive me positively insane, angel.” 

There’s a tug in Aziraphale’s chest, pulling him forward. A buzzing in his brain that demands to be noticed. 

He had been scared before. But now he’s not. Their lips are less than a breath away from each other and Aziraphale can feel the electricity between them. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, then gasps when Crowley closes the distance.

He has kissed other humans before, but that had only been due to the norm of the time (or requirement by a certain dance). Never has he kissed like this. This is with tenderness and longing and a dash of reservation to avoid seeming too eager. It’s the kind of first kiss that adds depth of understanding to all those sonnets he’s read about intimacy.

It’s easy to forget himself. To lose himself in the kiss, the slick slide of their lips against each other. The dizzying sensation of Crowley’s tongue as they deepen the kiss. 

They’re touching everywhere, now, with Crowley’s leg draped over Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale winds his arm around Crowley’s hips. His hand, flat against Crowley’s back, rubs up and down Crowley’s spine slowly, pressing him even closer. 

Aziraphale’s cock is filling with interest, and he can feel Crowley’s doing the same. In a burst of courage, he tilts his hips to press them together, and he’s rewarded both with flames dancing up his spine and a deep moan coming out of Crowley’s lips. 

Aziraphale pulls back, just far enough to observe Crowley’s face as he does it again. It’s addictive, the feeling and the softness of Crowley’s face, with his eyes closed and mouth open in ecstasy, red from kissing. Aziraphale _wants_ , and for once it doesn’t terrify him. 

Aziraphale continues the movement, his hips clearly knowing what to do to feed the pleasure, as he kisses from Crowley’s cheekbone to his neck, getting lost along Crowley’s sharp jawline. Crowley’s hand is tight in Aziraphale’s hair, and every time Aziraphale moves he gets a surprisingly thrilling tug. 

“Aziraphale, come here,” Crowley says. Aziraphale meets Crowley’s lips again, and is rewarded with Crowley bucking his hips up to change the angle. Unfortunately, as Crowley does it again, Aziraphale backs up too far and his cock shifts so that on Crowley’s next thrust, Aziraphale’s cock slides under Crowley’s crotch. It evokes a whole new sensation, as Aziraphale’s cock slides against Crowley’s perineum, along his ass. 

Crowley groans, tips his head back. Aziraphale’s stomach flips and he pushes against Crowley’s heat. 

“Is that nice, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, voice strained. He means it sincerely, but finds a thrill in the way Crowley only nods slowly in response, as if he’s so into this that he cannot put it into words. Aziraphale feels the same, if he is honest. 

In another moment of bravery, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s cock in his hand. It’s a tricky thing, to keep his hips rocking and to move his hand up and down Crowley’s cock, but he quickly finds a rhythm that works. He’s caught in the elation written all over Crowley’s face, such that he doesn’t notice the heat at the base of his spine until it’s unavoidable. 

“Crowley, I,” Aziraphale pants, motions becoming more erratic every second. 

“Don’t stop, angel,” Crowley replies, kissing Aziraphale once, sloppily. 

Aziraphale chases the immeasurable pleasure, grounded only by the light touch of his lips against Crowley’s. Then Crowley is moaning, dropping his head so their foreheads touch, his cock releasing on Aziraphale’s hand and stomach. Aziraphale’s eyes are closed but he can picture it, and that is what pushes him over the edge. He sees stars as his own body finds its release, and he kisses Crowley through it. 

“Aziraphale, please let go,” Crowley asks. It’s only then that Aziraphale realises he’s still squeezing Crowley’s cock. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, pulling his hand back like it’s been burned, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” 

Crowley laughs, more breathy than anything. “It’s alright.” He kisses Aziraphale on the lips languidly, and Aziraphale goes boneless under it. 

They stay like that for a few more minutes, wrapped together so tightly nothing in the world could pull them apart. Eventually, though, Crowley pulls back and Aziraphale is able to catch his breath. 

“I need to wash up,” Crowley says. “Care to join me?” 

It turns out Crowley enjoys his showers hotter than Aziraphale does, but it’s alright. Aziraphale can get used to it. 

His fingers are on their way to pruney by the time they step out of the shower. He only puts on his underwear again, enjoying the feeling of Crowley’s skin against his as they slot their bodies back together. It’s Aziraphale’s turn to wrap around Crowley’s back, nestling against Crowley’s still-damp hair. 

“Goodnight, love,” Aziraphale says. 

“Mmm,” Crowley says, shifting even closer to Aziraphale. His hair tickles Aziraphale’s nose and Aziraphale tries - and fails - to blow it away. “Goodnight angel.”

It’s the best sleep Aziraphale has ever had.

\--

They gain possession of their new cottage a week later. William and Eleanor help them move, but it takes them nearly another two weeks to get everything set to their liking. 

The first room that they finish is the master bedroom, of course. Crowley chooses a black side table, a black lamp, and a black, vintage alarm clock. Aziraphale chooses the white counterpart of the same. They share a smile when it’s set up, a secret joke between them. 

In the evenings, they hold each other close. Maybe they’re making up for lost time. Aziraphale does not regret anything; they’re where they’re at because of everything that has happened to them, everything they have chosen. 

They’re at the corner store one afternoon when Aziraphale finds Crowley in the pharmacy section. 

“Crowley? What do we need from here?” Aziraphale asks, afraid Crowley has become ill.

Crowley jumps in place, then fiddles with whatever he has in his hands. “It’s, well, uh.” He holds out the bottle to Aziraphale. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says as he inspects the lubricant. “Is this for-”

“Yes,” Crowley says quickly, clearly uncomfortable. “I understand if you don’t want-“

Aziraphale cuts Crowley off with a peck on his lips, his own cheeks heating. “Let’s go home,” he says as he puts the bottle into their basket.

Crowley speeds for the first time in over a month. 

\--

Despite the small road block where Aziraphale insists they put away the perishables, they get to the bedroom quickly, but get distracted with kissing each other before they even make it to the bed. Crowley walks Aziraphale back against the wall, his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale has become infatuated with the curves and edges of Crowley’s body, the way his hands dip in as he runs them down Crowley’s sides, past his waist, to his hips, landing on the waistband of Crowley’s slacks. 

Crowley, at the same time, stands with his feet closer together so Aziraphale can push the slacks off, while working at the buttons of Aziraphale’s cardigan. Crowley’s slacks fall to the ground and his cock, half hard, springs out, and suddenly it’s all Aziraphale can focus on. He wraps his fingers around the tip and squeezes, starting a slow rhythm.

“Angel, let’s finish undressing,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s ear, making him shiver. 

The problem with that is it’s much easier to undress Crowley, since all he’s wearing on top is a low-cut button-down. His body, tanned from sunbathing and smooth as ever, is intoxicating. Aziraphale can’t look away, can’t stop _touching._ He presses close, so they’re chest to chest, and leans up to take Crowley’s mouth. Crowley humms, opening up for it, while Aziraphale’s hands roam Crowley’s back, shoulders, torso. When Aziraphale reaches Crowley’s butt, Crowley inhales sharply.

“That lubricant,” Aziraphale asks, while kissing lightly along Crowley’s jawline. “Is it for you or me?” He punctuates it with a firm squeeze of one of Crowley’s cheeks. 

Crowley shudders, steps closer to Aziraphale such that his crotch is resting against Aziraphale’s hip. He’s more than half-hard now. So is Aziraphale. “It’s yours if you want it, but. Uh. For me.”

Aziraphale’s cock jumps in keen interest. “Are you sure? You don’t sound sure, darling.” 

“I’m sure,” Crowley says. He gasps, then, as Aziraphale traces a finger down Crowley’s crack. “Aziraphale!” He cries. 

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, simply steps back and finishes removing his own clothing, with some of Crowley’s help. It’s Crowley who closes the space now, even picks up Aziraphale a centimetre off the ground. It sparks a giddy giggle out of Aziraphale, who, although is indescribably turned on right now, is also excited to try something new. 

They kiss deeply one, two, three times, then break away to get onto the bed. Aziraphale wonders momentarily whether they should remove the bedcovers because they might get sticky (again), but Crowley kisses him again and he doesn’t think on it anymore. 

Aziraphale coaxes Crowley to lay on his back so Aziraphale can hover above. He backs off, on all fours for a moment, just taking in the sight of Crowley’s irrresistible body. 

“You are,” Aziraphale searches for the right word, scanning every inch of Crowley while Crowley squirms beneath him. “Glorious.” 

Crowley flushes. “Not too bad yourself, angel.” He says it with a glimmer in his eyes and Aziraphale has never felt so _seen_ , so loved.

He isn’t nervous, exactly, but he does want to start with something more familiar. He takes Crowley’s cock lightly in his hand, working it up and down slowly, twisting at the head. They haven’t done this much but Aziraphale is a fast learner, and Crowley is responsive. It’s quite easy to determine what speed and pressure it takes to make Crowley a babbling mess. 

“Is that good, love?” Aziraphale asks, meeting Crowley’s parted lips for a kiss. He cups one of Crowley’s balls, feeling the softness of it, revelling in the gasps Crowley can’t hold back. 

“You’re wretched,” Crowley whispers. “A tease.” 

Aziraphale smiles, goes back to moving his fist up and down Crowley’s cock. He uses the precome at the tip to glide his way, but only until Crowley’s hand forces him off. 

“Don’t wanna come yet, angel.” Crowley says.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a peck on the lips. “Alright. Let’s try this lubricant, shall we?”

He had left it on the dresser by the door, so he has to stand up to get it. When he turns back, his cock leaks just at the sight of Crowley, flushed and relaxed and _gorgeous_. His beard has grown in fully to a deep brown, so decadent against his skin. Aziraphale is a vessel of pure want, a want so intense he may need to take Crowley now to be satisfied. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of Crowley as he crawls back onto the bed, unscrewing the cap. Crowley props a pillow under his hips and spreads his knees, looking at Aziraphale, lips parted. 

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” Aziraphale says. He dispenses some lube on his fingers, then uses the other hand to stroke down Crowley’s inner thigh. Crowley shivers, tensing a bit too much when Aziraphale pulls one cheek to the side. 

He places a kiss to Crowley’s knee and waits. They catch each other’s gaze, and Aziraphale can feel Crowley relax slowly. He treads carefully, moving his wet fingers to Crowley’s hole. The tight muscles spasm at Aziraphale’s touch but Crowley gasps and doesn’t tell Aziraphale to stop. 

He moves his finger around the hole, just testing, then pushes the tip of his index finger in gently. Crowley shudders but otherwise stays silent, so Aziraphale pushes in deeper. 

“Unnmph,” Crowley grunts. 

“Good?” Aziraphale asks. He pulls back slowly, pushes in again more forcefully. 

“Yessss,” Crowley hisses, squirming forward, tilting his hips up. 

It’s all the encouragement Aziraphale needs. He continues the prep, adding a second finger gingerly. It’s difficult to hold back, to say the least. With every thrust of his fingers he imagines it’s his cock instead. His need to be inside Crowley is overtaking his better judgement. 

He adds a third finger without adding more lubricant and it’s much drier, but Crowley doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, when Aziraphale’s fingers are buried, Crowley throws his head back into the pillow and _whines._

“There, there!” Crowley pants. Aziraphale understands, keeping the same angle as he moves his fingers in and out. Crowley keens, flushes, and it’s beautiful. 

“My dear, you should see yourself,” Aziraphale says when Crowley’s hand flies to the base of his cock and squeezes. “There is no being in existence as handsome as you.”

“Fuck, Aziraphale. Fuck me.” Crowley emphasizes his statement by uncoordinatedly batting at Aziraphale’s arm. 

Aziraphale would ask if Crowley is sure, but Crowley catches his eye with such fire that there is no need. He makes quick work with the lubricant and the touch to his own cock is so belatedly needed that he cannot contain a moan. 

A hand on either of Crowley’s hips, Aziraphale lines up. His body knows just what to do and he pushes forward steadily, his cock already leaking. When the head of his cock breaches Crowley’s entrance, they both gasp. Crowley had not felt this tight around Aziraphale’s fingers but now, with only the tip in, Aziraphale feels constricted in the best possible way. 

Another push forward and the heat and pressure only intensify. Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley’s hips for stability, more mental than anything. It’s so good he may burst out of his own skin.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a question. 

“It’s good, it’s bloody fantastic Aziraphale, don’t stop,” is Crowley’s hasty reply. 

So Aziraphale doesn’t. He pushes until he’s bottomed out, then pulls back almost until the head of his cock comes free. He repeats the motion, almost as slowly as the first time, revelling in Crowley’s yielding body and the overwhelmingly _lustful_ heat. 

He speeds up, using his hips to punctuate his thrusts. It changes the angle too, and Aziraphale is reminded of the spot he had found earlier. He makes it his life’s mission to find it, pushing in with more force, more intent. It’s difficult though, because his own pleasure is clouding his mind like a haze of intoxication. It’s Crowley, it’s always been Crowley, who can make him feel this way. He just never knew it could be this damned strong. 

Finally, _finally,_ Crowley’s back arches and he yells into the open air. “Yes!” He screams, one hand curling around Aziraphale’s forearm. 

It’s all Aziraphale needs to know. He tenses his back, his hips, keeping the exact angle necessary to pull only slightly back and push forward, his best approximation of massaging Crowley’s prostate. He’s not sure if it works exactly, but Crowley has his face firmly tucked in a pillow now, so it must feel good. 

“Harder, Aziraphale. Faster.” Though his voice sounds utterly wrecked, Crowley still manages to sound all sorts of demanding. It’s as easy as breathing to comply. 

“I’ve got you, dearest,” Aziraphale says, doing exactly as Crowley has asked. He goes harder and harder, his whole body flushing from exertion and arousal. The sound of his sack hitting Crowley’s cheeks shouldn’t sound as sinful as it does. The look on Crowley’s face, pained and pleasured at the same time, shouldn’t be real. It’s too perfect, not possible. 

But it is. And Aziraphale gets to experience it. That thought alone drives him mad, and he wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock to cope. 

“Angel!” Crowley exclaims. “Don’t stop, angel!”

Like Hell he could. 

Aziraphale leans over, meets Crowley’s lips for a sloppy kiss. He has to break away to catch his breath, and is rewarded to see Crowley’s mouth drop open into an O. 

Crowley’s whole body tenses as he comes, tightening around Aziraphale’s cock like a vice. It’s too much. The fire inside Aziraphale becomes an explosion, and he comes inside Crowley with a shout. 

It takes a full minute for Aziraphale to feel at all in control of his body again. He removes himself from Crowley slowly, mesmerized by the mess that trickles out. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says quietly. “That will take some cleaning up.”

“Shut up, Aziraphale, and come here,” Crowley demands. Aziraphale complies, curling into Crowley’s side; head on his chest, Aziraphale meets Crowley’s lips again for a languid kiss. 

We really should wash up,” Aziraphale says, who knows how long later. 

“I guess you’re right.” Crowley sighs. “Care to join me?”

Aziraphale giggles and follows Crowley to the bedroom. “It would be my pleasure.”

\--

The years go by, and Heaven and Hell never stop searching. They scan the universe for a traitorous angel and demon. The send ground troops to every corner of England, expanding their search year after year. Every year, they fail. 

In an unassuming cottage just outside Edinburgh, surrounded by wildflowers, a well-tended garden, and towering trees, two humans can be found. Not that Heaven or Hell care about them. 

These humans have found peace, created their own happy ending. Just as God had intended all along.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always treasured. Feel free to find me on tumblr at [saunteredownwards](http://saunteredownwards.tumblr.com/) :D
> 
> 1\. [Aziraphale's grey suit](https://twitter.com/zhelaniye_/status/1144580969728487425)  
> 2\. [Crowley's Aviators](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i2acdOQmyiw/UEUMXdWI_wI/AAAAAAAAAOo/FcC1jFX_ZV8/s1600/much1.jpg)  
> 3\. [Crowley's Grey Suit](https://twitter.com/on_reserve/status/1150386469443444737)  
> 4\. [Aziraphale's Navy Suit](https://img-s-msn-com.akamaized.net/tenant/amp/entityid/AAEtnMF.img?h=417&w=624&m=6&q=60&o=f&l=f&x=2315&y=1310)


End file.
